I Hope it Stays Dark Forever
by bloodofpyke
Summary: Set during Peeta's time in the Capitol.
1. The Interview

"So, Peeta, welcome back." The words were easy, comfortable almost, and Caesar settled back in his chair, looking at Peeta for a long moment.

"I bet you thought you'd done your last interview with me, Caesar." A smile, more easy words (he was always good at words, this boy with the bread, they were a game to him, but one he could _win)_.

He had barely been inside the Capitol a day when they shuffled him in front of the camera, painting him pretty, stuffing him inside a stiff suit of clothes. There had been growled instructions, thrown at him like he was a little kid, like he didn't know what was at stake.

He did though, of course he did. _Katniss._ Her name tasted strange on his tongue, all blocky letters and sharp edges, and he faltered a moment on screen, fingers running over the chair. A sharp voice at his side, a look from Caesar, and Peeta snaps back, snaps back to the script they wrote for him. "But other people had plans as well," he heard himself say, wrinkling his eyebrows.

The interview dragged on, and he played his part, talking of the arena, of the ticking clock, of that last night. He wasn't paying attention, not really, he knew his script and he stuck to it, but they couldn't make him listen, couldn't make him be there any more than he had to. Until he heard Caesar's voice saying something about suspicions, about Katniss being a part of the rebel's plan. And then he was on his feet, shouting, eyes locked onto his interviewer's, and he could almost feel Snow's anger radiating at him, could almost see the reception he was going to get once this was over. But he didn't care, couldn't make himself care. "She didn't know, Caesar! Neither of us knew anything except that we were trying to keep each other alive!" He was yelling, spit flying into Caesar's face, making his pretty decorations run. He could feel hands on his chest, could feel the echo of his heartbeat in them, a frenzied kind of beat, and he slumped back in his chair, messing up his hair, feeling the hairspray stick to his fingers, all static and glue.

The questions were simple after that, and Peeta played it careful, knowing what another outburst would cost him, would cost someone else. Then Caesar brought up the war, and Peeta fell back into the script, in relief almost. _It's almost nice,_ he thought, _to know your lines, to play your part._ He had always been a good actor.

He heard himself make another joke, another attempt to seem like it was all fine, and then the interview was over. He was hustled off the stage, hands gripping his arms so tight he thought they might break off, and as he was marched away, he could hear Caesar talking to someone, sighing. "It's just the stress, you know," he was saying, "and losing her, to top it all off, well what else could we really have expected?"

An anger flared up inside him, and he wanted to wrench free, to shout, _I didn't lose her! She lost me!_ But did she? He didn't know, couldn't separate his dreams from reality, wasn't even sure if he wanted to.

And then the hands were letting him go, and Snow loomed up in front of him, grinning and shaking his hand, leaning in close, too close, hissing, "it's time we had a talk, you and I."


	2. The Conversation

It was silent but for the click of President Snow's shoes on the tile. The hallway was dark, the ceiling low, and Peeta felt like he was being suffocated, like he was being buried alive. And then they were in Snow's office. It was unremarkable, almost, and Snow sat himself behind the desk, a framed map of Panem hanging behind him. Peeta remembered a stolen snatch of conversation, from years ago, centuries ago, where Katniss had told him it always shocked her to see Snow in a normal setting. "Where are his flags?" she'd asked, "his great white columns?"

"That was quite an interview you gave out there," Snow said finally, and something in his eyes flashed a warning.

"If you say so," Peeta answered with a shrug of his shoulders. _Act like a kid, like a teenager, and maybe it'll work out._ He knew it wouldn't though, but he had to give it a shot.

"You know, I spoke to your, ah, girlfriend before the tour, were you aware of that?"

"I was." _Should I have lied, said that I had no idea?_ Words were a game, a game he was good at, but with Snow, the stakes were higher, the competition tougher, and he felt like he was drowning.

"She was very concerned about Gale."

"Isn't that surprising? Her being concerned about someone she loved who you'd just threatened?" He'd crossed the line, he knew, but he couldn't bring himself to care. _He can't kill me,_ he told himself, so _what's the worst he can do?_ It was bravado, he knew that too, and an empty one at that _(what's the worst he can do? a hell of a lot worse than I could ever imagine_, but he pushed that thought from his mind, thinking like that wouldn't help him get out of this, wouldn't help him _win)_, but he needed it.

And then Snow laughed. It was dry and quiet, but there it was, and Peeta shrank back from it without thinking, shrank back from the sickly sweet smell. Snow leaned back in his chair, surveying Peeta over interlocked fingers. "Seems like Katniss wasn't the only one with the fire," he said.

"Seems like it."

It was over after that. Hands were gripping Peeta's arms again and he was marched back to his cell, the sound of the lock clanging around the empty room.

He was alone in his room _(alone?_ he scoffed, glancing up at the cameras. _I was more alone in the Games)_, and he settled down on the bed, reaching for his deck of cards and shaking them out. His hands were shaking though, just a little bit, but enough, and he shuffled the card instead, setting out a game of Solitaire.

He played out the game slowly, deliberately, thinking ahead as if this game had stakes, as if he had an opponent. _It's a bit like being back in the Games,_ he thought, but that wasn't right, because this _was_ different. It was like a new Game, an extension of the old one, and Peeta wasn't sure of the rules, wasn't sure of the outcome. _And I only have myself to look after this time._ But that wasn't right either; he had Katniss, and Prim, and the rest of District 12, even Gale on his shoulders. Snow knew where they were, he didn't doubt it for a second, the only question was when he would strike. _Would it even matter if I played to their script? If he's just going to kill them all anyway?_ He didn't know, couldn't know, and he wanted to scream, to punch the wall, to have Haymitch rasping instructions in his ear (no, he didn't want that, not really, he just wanted Haymitch back, wanted everyone back).

_It wouldn't matter,_ he realized, _unless I got the rebellion to stop. But am I capable of that?_ A beat, then _no._ He wasn't, of course he wasn't, the idea was laughable, like he was capable of throwing a a wrench into the machine, like that would be enough that stop it all. _If the Capitol can't even do it, why would they think I would be able to? Because I'm a kid, because I'm a Victor, because I'm one half of the star-crossed lovers gag?_ At that thought, at the unsaid name, his hands stilled, because he _got_ it all of a sudden. _I won't be able to stop anything, and they're all going to die anyway. It's a Game, that much is true at least, but not one that I could ever hope to win._

_Still, though. _If they were expecting him to fight, and it seemed like they were, after Snow's reception, after his chuckle, that would just be making it easier for them. Like lying down in front of the guns, or jumping into the flames. _I've got to at least try._ He was good at this, and maybe, maybe if he just stuck to the script, played the part for a little while, well, maybe he could figure a way out of this.

A way to win.


End file.
